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Our red brick square gymnasium was an anachronism
Among the steel-ribbed, concrete muscled ellipses
And angles of the day; it was full of shadows –
The floor corduroy, the backboards wood
And the rims were bent with age
(the relentless ricochet of basketballs),
It had none of the embellishments
Found in more modern gyms.
It was simply a no-nonsense structure
Built to house players not spectators.
Surrounded by its gray walls and wrinkled floor
We practiced two-to-six, six days a week.
And throughout that time – four years –
Our coach, who was as old as the building,
Taunted and inspired us, swore and cajoled us,
He taught us to play without frills.
We became red brick and corduroy
And learned to see through shadows.

Shooting hoops,
you realize that
the spirit of the universe
swirls around you
like a gentle
blue light
The lowering sun beckons
your eyes and nothing else
This is all you need
This is your life,
that hunk of
one city street,
and you become
a thing of beauty
jumping through
the evening’s stillness
with this pumpkin
in your hand
You choose
to be outside
playing basketball
because you have
a small hole to fill
A net of darkness
that you love
more than a best friend
Street lights are shining again
in the shadow of the city
You’re in the middle,
catching the ball
before you leap
as high as Olympus
And suddenly you see
your fingertips
on the ball
growing older,
growing darker,
the very last drop
of immortality